


Urgent

by VeronicaRich



Series: Smokin' Aces [5]
Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of the end scene from "Ace on the River." No great plot points, but definitely a resolution of sorts to that UST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urgent

Lister held his breath momentarily, blocking out the rapid breathing of the pilot, registering nothing but touch and scent and sight. The upturned tip of his nose butted the upper shell of Ace’s – No, Rimmer’s; _Rimmer’s!_ – ear. He resisted the urge to roll out his tongue and lick into that ear, like he had the night before, several times once he’d figured out the effect it had on Rimmer.

A whole host of memories traipsed through his brain, dragging too-recent feeling and need with them. If he’d known last night that he was trading sweat and kisses with the man he’d wanted for years, even dreamed about … well, they’d still be back in the room, in the Jupiter-size bed, still stuck together and drowning in an ocean of royal blue comforter and pent-up need being burned away and replaced with mutual devotion. Maybe even love.

Well, maybe they would. He realized as the memories cleared a little that Rimmer didn’t seem to be moving, didn’t seem to be responding – hell, didn’t seem to be breathing anymore. Lister at last drew in a slow, necessary breath, filled with the scent of well-used leather and hotel soap wafting off Rimmer’s body heat. He wanted to lick it off his neck, his chest, his legs, the slope just above his backside, his armpit, along his hairline. Rimmer’s hands were glued to the console, doing nothing but slowly clutching at nothing every so often. Lister put his right hand over one of them, curling his fingers over the backs of Rimmer’s. “This-” He didn’t know how to finish that. _This is a gift? This is the best thing to happen to me since Kryten found that stash of magazines in Starbug’s cargo section that_ weren't _The Ladies Home Journal? This is what I’ve wanted for years, so don’t fuck it up by pushing me away?_

Rimmer kept his eyes down. “This, indeed,” he quietly repeated.

Lister pulled back only two inches, just enough to see the hologram’s eyelashes in profile. They were so detailed – individual tiny hairs that twitched as he blinked or closed, fanning the top of the nearest cheekbone. “Y’know, you’re beautiful,” he whispered in a warm, low voice. He wondered if it was just a female adjective. He hoped not; it was true. “You always were.” He was pleased to see the corner of Rimmer’s mouth twitch up toward a smile, and relief flooded his heart. “I am so glad you’re still alive.”

“I’m not alive,” Rimmer reminded him, voice low. It carried a roundness of humor.

“Less dead than I feared, then.” Slowly, he kissed Rimmer’s cheek. “I missed you.”

“Yes, you said …” He watched Rimmer swallow, as if nervous. Lister reached around to cup the other side of his jaw and turned his face until they were nearly nose-to-nose. After several seconds, the man looked up at him, eyes the color of a forest blinking a few times. Lister dragged his thumb across those full lips, his eyes never leaving Rimmer’s. “You said that last night.”

“I said a lot last night. I meant all of it, too.” Lister reached up to fan his fingertips through the edges of auburn curls just above Rimmer’s ear. “What about you?” They were both quiet, their respiration out of sync so that each breathed in when the other exhaled, lips inches apart. They eyed one another, trancelike, even as Rimmer leaned toward him, angling his head.

The kiss had only gone a few testing seconds when the comm system beeped in, loudly: “Spaceport Tower Ten to _Wildfire_ ; cleared for departure, anytime you’d like to skate your lovely bird out onto the tarmac.” This was followed by a couple of chuckles, friendly and comradely, and then a more respectful, “Sir.”

Lister didn’t move as Rimmer pulled away; to his credit, Rimmer didn’t jerk back or avert his eyes; in fact, Lister could’ve sworn he looked regretful. That made Lister grin, perhaps too cockily. At that, Rimmer did turn back toward the console, but not before Lister saw some embarrassment flush into those cheeks. “Go get buckled in,” he told his passenger, with a tone of command, but gently. “Fiona’s the best, but it’s still a rough takeoff.”

“Yes, Captain.” Rimmer blushed even deeper at that, or maybe it was just the husky way Lister said it as he stood and walked away.

A couple of hours later, after takeoff and a teeth-jarring dimensional jump, Lister unlocked his belt and stood between the two cots in the tiny ship, wondering when it would stop spinning on the horizontal axis before him. He leaned over, hands on his thighs, and closed his eyes briefly, willing his inner-ear balance to quit doing the can-can and straighten up, fly right. After a couple or so minutes, he felt a shift in the air and heard a voice rather humorously inquire, “You all right there, Skipper?”

He looked up, and made his body follow his eyes, feeling a couple of cracks along his spine from sitting for so long. “Bloody hell!” he muttered, using his hands to rotate his head and crack his neck. “Warn a guy better next time!”

Rimmer was smirking as he turned to a cabinet, opened the door flush to the wall with a couple of light taps, and removed what looked like a needle gun. Lister took a step back, but Rimmer fastened strong fingers around his forearm and quickly pressed the contraption to his arm; there was a small prick and a hiss, and he pulled away. “Extra strength Dramamine,” Rimmer explained, putting it back behind the small door.

“Ah.” It was the last platonic thought Lister had before he noticed Rimmer was very close, practically looming. He seemed collected, but Lister’s eye was trained to notice the nearly-imperceptible jiggling of his right leg, the way his hands opened and closed. He licked his lips a couple of times, and Lister was lost; he surged forth and kissed the man, hooking his hands onto Rimmer’s shoulders beneath his leather jacket. He pushed it off onto the floor and Rimmer did the same; Lister felt his jacket softly thud behind his feet. “I want you,” he gasped into Rimmer’s mouth.

“Smegging fuck yeah,” the hologram groaned, pushing him toward the cots.

Less than an hour later, Lister contemplatively stroked Rimmer’s sweaty hair back from his sweaty face. He’d lasted less time than he liked in bed, but felt like he could hardly be blamed on this one occasion. He craned his head to lick some moisture from Rimmer’s temple, then kissed the spot. They were propped against the wall at one end of a short cot, Lister’s legs and arms bracketing the taller man, who had slumped back against his chest, eyes closed, head back on his shoulder. Sweat stuck his hair to Lister’s skin, and his something else entirely stuck the small of his back to Lister’s abdomen. “That was better than last night,” Lister observed, still panting lightly.

“How?” Rimmer asked, the question coming as a soft whine, his chin somewhat in the air, long throat exposed. He twisted his head to turn his eyes toward Lister.

He held Rimmer’s arms lightly, rubbing the pads of his thumbs across his inner wrists, concentrating on stroking the soft skin in tiny circles. “Know who you are now. Well – I had a feelin’ last night you were you. Body’s got better instincts than the brain.” He kissed Rimmer’s nose. “But I thought _you_ were gone forever. And that you last night were just a stand-in. And …” How did you tell someone they were a substitute for themselves? Wouldn’t that be an insult at the same time it was a compliment? “As ball-drainingly _hot_ as last night was, just being able t’ kiss you up there in your chair was about twenty times better in itself.”

Rimmer blinked at him, giving nothing away. “Listy, I’ll never know why you didn’t become a politician,” he finally said, tone droll.

Lister realized he was being joshed. “Smeg off.”

“I mean, oratory skills like that deserve a spot on the floor in Parliament-”

“Arnold, shut the hell up.”

“The Prime Minister recognizes Lord David Lister, representative of Currychase, of County Lager-” Lister clamped his mouth over Rimmer’s rather violently, squeezing his wrists slightly. He kept it up until he felt his kiss being returned, at first lazily, then with a soft, needy whine from Rimmer’s throat. Lister coaxed more with his tongue as he lifted his right foot and ran it slowly up and down Rimmer’s shin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Little Ace coming to attention, and smiled into the kiss.

Presently, Lister pulled back a little and licked at those sensual lips, lessening the grip on the man’s wrists. “You’re ruining this magic moment,” he whispered.

Rimmer blinked up at him, desire smoking his greenish eyes as he licked Lister off his lips. “Right, then,” he breathed out. Lister was immensely pleased to note a ragged catch in his voice. “Sorry, Dave.” A cocky grin crept across his flushed face as he added in a thick, pseudo-Scouser purr, “I mean, beggin’ your gracious pardon, Lord Currycha- _NOT THE TICKLING_!”


End file.
